


Death and Flowers

by Adi_mou



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Because it's Hades guys., Dark, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adi_mou/pseuds/Adi_mou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She never was one for resisting temptation. Mythology AU. Hades/Persephone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hades and Persephone

She always loved the flowers. They were possibly the only reason she tolerated the mortal world. She never shared the extent of her mother's love (she would say obsession) for the fertility and agriculture of the earth.

The very image of a pure, obedient daughter, Molly reveled in the tiniest of rebellions. This field was off-limits, but who was to stop a goddess from enjoying the fruit of her labors? She was, after all, responsible for the beauty bestowed upon the flowers.

"Oh aren't you lovely?" She whispered as her eyes fell on a beautiful black rose, the only one in the vast field, dark, forbidding and giving off an aura of dangerous temptation.

She was never one to resist temptation, regardless of what her mother might think.

She plucked it, skillfully avoiding the thorns and placed it tentatively behind her ear. Wishing she had brought a mirror along with her, she cast her eyes around for a pool or lake of some sort.

"Black suits you," said a cold, deep voice from behind her. She twisted around quickly, heart hammering fast. Her blood ran cold.

Sherlock smirked at her, his green-blue eyes cold and fixed upon the flower in her hair. His slender fingers reached out to her and she took a frightened step back. He chuckled deep in his throat.

"Now, now, little goddess, you needn't be frightened."

"You're the Lord of the Dead," she managed to say, her voice strained. "Of course I should be frightened."

"I prefer King of the Underworld," he replied easily, taking another step closer to her and she nearly tripped trying to back away from him. He gave off the exact aura of the flower in her hair, that of dangerous temptation. "I see the Olympians have done good to alter your perception of me, little goddess."

She wouldn't argue with him there. All she knew of the King of the Underworld was from her mother, and Demeter had painted him as a cruel, disfigured old man who willingly ruled the dead with an iron fist. The Sherlock she saw now wasn't even in the slightest like that image. This Sherlock was young, thin and pale, dressed in robes of black, with high-cheekbones, full beautifully shaped lips, cat-like eyes whose color was shifting between green, blue and some other she couldn't put a name on, and with a slender, long neck that made her mouth water suddenly.

He smirked that infuriatingly smug lop-sided smirk, like he knew exactly what was on her mind right then. He advanced upon her again, and she backed up against a tree.

"Your advances are not welcome, my Lord," she squeaked, as he placed a hand directly above her shoulder and leaned in closer. His eyes blazed suddenly.

"Then explain to me-" he said darkly, nuzzling her neck, goose bumps rising on the skin there, "-why you smell of desire, my little goddess?"

"I do not!" she shouted indignantly, squirming to get away, but he grabbed her waist and pulled her tighter against him, his hard lean body pressed up against her soft, petite one. He pulled her brown hair to one side and she choked back a moan when he trailed his full lips down the scented column of her neck.

"Please," she stuttered out, "please, my Lord Sherlock, let me leave, I beg your forgiveness, please- oooh!"

He sucked hard on the place on her neck he had bitten moments ago, stopping only when he was certain there would be a mark.

"Now why would I do that?" He said his eyes now boring in her brown ones. "Why should I just let such a lovely flower slip from my grasp when she so willingly wanders into my garden?"

"Because my mother-"

He snorted derisively and tilted her chin up with the hand that wasn't gripping her hip painfully hard. Their lips met and Molly stopped thinking. His mouth forced hers open and she let him, bringing up a hand to bury it in his dark curls, just as his played with the brown locks at the back of her neck.

She had kissed before, mortals and gods alike, but those kisses were only at festivals and lasted the merest of moments. They did not make her feel like she was drowning. She latched onto him, both hands now burying into his hair and bringing him tighter, closer to her. He smelled intoxicating, like ambrosia and nectar, smashing away her inhibitions one by one.

She made a soft noise of disappointment when he pulled away from her lips, but immediately moaned when he raked his teeth over her collarbone, pulling away the strap of her dress from her shoulder to expose more of her skin.

"Do you want me?" He mumbled against her skin, and she looked at him in surprise. This was the first time since their encounter that his voice had sounded like that, almost pleading. His eyes were begging her as he stopped his ministrations and rested their foreheads together.

It was not a look she could have thought the King of the Underworld to be capable of forming. "Do you want me-" He kissed her again, chastely this time, "-as much as I want you?"

She shivered. There was something in his voice, the deep, deep voice that made desire pool in her center. But she couldn't just agree to whatever he was asking for. Mother wouldn't like it one bit. Mother would be so angry. Mother would lock her away if she agreed to Sherlock. Sherlock was taking advantage of her, that's what Mother would say. Mother would want her to resist temptation.

He kissed her again, mouth ravaging hers in an all consuming kiss that made her feel as if she was on fire.

She never was one for resisting temptation.


	2. 2

It was so dark here. Dark, dark, dark. She wouldn't ever survive here. She needed the sun; she needed the earth beneath her toes and the laughter of the nymphs in her ear.

No, she would never stay here.

Her hands tightened into fists. He may have carried her here, but she did not need to stay. He could not possibly make her stay in this world filled with despair. Her mother would do something about it, she was positively sure about that.

She was wrong to come here in the first place. But she knew she would never have refused the Lord of the Dead. Not when he had looked so vulnerable and pleaded her to come with him.

She shivered when she thought about the ride that got her here. No chariot, even the one belonging to the King of the Underworld, could cross the Styx. The ferry across had nearly killed her with fright. She remembered clinging to him (he smelled intoxicating, something of a mixture of burnt spices and something so masculine) while he chuckled deep in his chest. She didn't care; she did not want to look at those emancipated arms, reaching out from the depths of the water, as if to snatch her down with them.

He had left her here, in this chamber, the moment they had arrived at his palace. It was a palace of immense wealth, unrivaled even by those of his brothers'. No, the Lord of the Dead was the wealthiest of all gods, and he did not hesitate in showing it.

She fidgeted constantly, ignoring the platter of food a short, stocky man with sandy hair and warm blue eyes had left on the table. She would touch anything they gave her, lest she was forced to remain here, forever.

She plucked the black rose, wilted but still nonetheless very beautiful, from her hair and twirled it around her fingers. She focused and a soft smile spread across her face when the flower freshened itself as her powers flowed into it. It was a small comfort, to have something she still had power over in these unfamiliar, unfriendly settings.

She dropped it immediately when she heard heavy footsteps rushing towards her. She turned around just in time to see him rush into the chamber, hair disheveled, eyes wide and taking deep breaths.

It was a startling contrast to the version of him she had seen hours (days?) ago.

She held his gaze, her heart speeding up for a very different reason than fear. His eyes had a feverish glint to them, and it worried her (Why was she worried for him?).

"They want to take you away."

"What?" she asked voice rasping. Her throat was dry and she was not sure what she was hearing.

"They want to-," he said, every word crystal clear and steady now, "-take you back."

Her heart was racing now. "I…"

"You will not go back!" He shouted, advancing on her so quickly she barely had time to blink before he had backed her into the wall, their breaths mingling. His arms braced themselves on the wall beside her head.

Her hands pushed against his hard chest this time, her soft palms digging into the armor he was wearing and preventing him from coming any closer. "Lord Sherlock," she began, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She focused on the metal ridges on his chest plate, so as to look anywhere but his eyes. "You do not want me. I'm just a minor nature goddess. I barely surpass the nymphs."

Those green-blue ever shifting eyes narrowed at her. "You deprecate your value, little goddess." He leant closer and kissed the spot on her neck that bore his mark. She pushed him away immediately and he scowled.

She scowled back. "You do not want me, Sherlock," she said clearly, "You obviously are under some kind of spell, possibly one set by Eros or-"

His deep, booming laughter filled the room. She froze as he buried his face into her neck, easily overpowering her, and continued chuckling into her skin.

"Little goddess, if it were this easy to charm me, Aphrodite would have found me a Queen the moment we vanquished the Titans."

"Then…what- why me?" she said as he raised his head and rested their foreheads together.

He snorted. "I make my own choices. Not those disgusting ones Aphrodite has been hoisting on me for centuries."

"Basically," Molly snapped, her mild temper reaching its limits. "I'm just something for you to prove that you are immune to Aphrodite's powers." She made to struggle out but he blockaded her way.

"I do not pretend to love, Molly," he drawled in a bored monotone, "Love was a lie created by the gods to ensure that the mortals reproduced."

"Let me go!" she shouted, not bothering to hide her tears. "I refuse to be here, in this world filled with nothing but despair just because you have need of a wife!"

She caught sight of the look of hurt that flashed across his exotic face before he schooled his features carefully into its mask of indifference. She did not care. She was not about to become some sort of a trophy Queen to the Lord of the Dead all so he could prove to the others he needed no emotional intimacy.

She used the opportunity to wriggle loose.

He gripped her forearm painfully hard and tugged her back to him; her chest hitting his armor-covered one painfully. One of his arms went around her, pulling her flush against him, his eyes boring into hers. She glared back at him defiantly. A smirk spread across his features.

"I wouldn't have put you down for being feisty," he said. "All those times I saw you with your mother, being so obedient and the perfect daughter-"

She stared at him, mouth open. "You saw me…?"

Sherlock smiled, and a shiver ran up Molly's spine. It was a cruel, terrible smile that did not reach his eyes. "I have seen you many times, little goddess. You are always in your mother's shadow, yes, but I saw you."

"But I…I never…"

"The art of disguise is that of hiding in plain sight," he said casually. "I'm very good at going places my brother wishes me not to go."

He moved away from her. "Well, this has been fun. I do hope we could do this again, now that we have established that you are my queen and you shall remain here. For now I have souls to throw into Tartarus." He made for the door but Molly found her voice.

"You may keep me here, Sherlock, but I will never ever be your queen."

"You came here quite willingly, if you forgot." He retorted, his back still turned to her.

"You had me under a spell. You manipulated me." Molly said, "It was a terrible indiscretion on my part."

His eyes flared dangerously as he turned to face her. Molly drew back into herself, but could not help but search for the man who had pinned her to the tree in the garden, kissing her as if he would die without her taste.

"You are lonely. That's all you are. Lonely, pathetic and always in the shadow of your brother," Molly whispered, knowing that these words could possibly be her last. "You think that bringing me here would prove something to them all. Prove them wrong. They are of the opinion that the King of the Underworld will never find a queen. So you bewitch and abduct me, the one goddess the polar opposite of you. That is just pathetic. You have no idea how to feel love or sentiment-"

"Sentiment," he hissed, "is a chemical defect found in mortals."

"I pity you for thinking like that."

He launched himself at her, gripping her waist so tight she was sure the skin would bruise. His mouth ravaged hers as he flung her onto the bed and crawled over her, his armor rough against her skin. She bit back a moan as he raked his teeth roughly down her throat to her collarbone, his knee in the middle of her legs, keeping her spread open.

"I don't need sentiment to make you feel like you are in the Isles of the Blessed," he growled next to her ear. He pushed up her skirt and thrust a hand up into her core. She keened and arched into him. "I don't need love to make you scream for more."

Tears were dripping down her face as he bit into her now exposed shoulder.

"Do what you want with me," she managed to gasp out. "Just know that I will always hate you with every fiber of my being."

He froze and for one second, when their eyes met, Molly felt a strange connection with the Dark Lord. His eyes were brimming with hurt, and she wondered if she had finally gone too far.

He looked broken and very young.

And just like that, he was gone, his weight off of her chest, leaving her alone once more.

She buried her face into the silk covers of the bed and curled in on herself, trying to control her tears.


	3. Chapter 3

He had taken to wandering the Underworld on his own again. He could not bear to be in his chambers, nor could he bear to stay in his palatial mansion. Not while she wandered through the halls, her natural, heavenly glow still about her despite her extended stay in the Land of the Dead. He could not bear to look at her anymore; the stubborn fire in her eyes as she looked at him with hate and something akin to  _pity._

It was as if, when she looked at him, she could see him, really  _see_  him, and the thought made his innards roll. Nobody had looked at him like that in a millennia, not even  _her_ ,  _the_ Goddess.  _She_  had frustrated him to Tartarus and back, but never to this extent.  _She_  had not forced him to shun his own house.  _She_ had never made him feel so exposed with just one line.  _She_ had been a puzzle. He had pushed his very impressive brain to the limits in his attempt to figure her out, but she had been ruled by logic, and logic he understood. Her every action, every deception, every attempt at seduction had been calculative and logical; he understood why she did what she did.

And now, the Lord of the Dead had been forced to wander, unable to return to his home, because of a little slip of a Goddess with warm eyes that made him feel strangely inadequate.

He had tried going back to his chambers after that dreadful confrontation, but her sobs had filtered through the shield he had erected in his mind as he stood outside the door. He should have been irritated by the woman's pathetic snivels as she sobbed into his sheets; he held no sympathy for those who came to his court weeping and sniveling, hoping to sway him.

And yet, as she sobbed, no doubt wetting his silk sheets with her tears and mucus, he did not feel disgust. He wanted to go to her, pull her warm form into his arms, bury his nose into her sweet smelling hair; he wanted to kiss her, kiss her tears away, taste her delicious mouth again and again. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to promise her that he would not hurt her, let  _no one_  hurt her, he would be anything and everything she wanted him to be.

The moment flashed away just as quick as it came, and he ran, raising his mental shields as he did. He was not a  _weakling,_  he was the bloody King of the Underworld, and eons spent strengthening mental shields, ensuring that nothing distracted him from the task at hand, did not crumble away to dust at one little goddess's heartfelt sobbing.

"Just let her go."

He raised his head, and turned to look at the speaker. Working out the creaks in his neck, he stared impassively at his friend as the Keeper of the Gates walked towards him, in that humanoid form he preferred.

"Let her go," John said calmly, sitting down next to him with a familiarity not one of Sherlock's other subjects enjoyed. "Let her go, and come back to your senses."

The Lord of the Dead did not bother answering, but then again, John hadn't expected an answer. "What do you stand to gain by making her stay here? Other than the war your brothers and sisters rage outside your gates?"

"Why are you here, John?" Sherlock drawled, "Should you not be at the gates?"

"We have reached an impasse," John replied. "I think your brother will hold another meeting in Olympus, and he expects you to attend this time."

Sherlock gazed at the Styx, the rise and fall of the tide oddly calming him. "I see Mycroft has finally learned not to bother beating down at my gates. I thought we settled this eon ago. He gets the Heavens; I get total control of the Underworlds."

"Lestrade wanted to keep battling," John said. "He was her suitor, you know."

There was a subtle stiffening of Sherlock's back that only John could have discerned. "Was he now?"

"Yes, he was," John continued, slowly now that he was aware he was threading thin ice, "Demeter would not let them marry, but I guess he still feels for her."

Sherlock slid off the rock he was perched on. "Lovely chatting with you," he said perfunctorily, "Now off you go. Don't want any of the souls to escape now, do we?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he too, jumped off the rock. "Do you not understand what I am saying? We have lost many hounds,  _your_  hounds today!"

Sherlock whirled around to look at him, eyes wide and John knew he was paying him his full attention. "Lestrade," he explained. "He brought in one of his Cyclops. Killed off a dozen of the lower hounds before I could get there."

"All I'm saying is," he continued. "You do not love her, Sherlock. Let her go. She deserves to be free and don't you see what she is? She is a goddess of the light. The Earth will suffer without her; she will suffer without the Earth. In her grief, Demeter has stopped her favors to the mortals. Earth is dying, Sherlock."

The Lord of the Dead seemed to temporarily lose his ability to say anything. John had not doubted for a second that his speech would work, but Sherlock actually looked moved.

The Spring Goddess must have gotten under his skin deeper than John ever thought.

Sherlock began to walk away, and John followed. "We might not even have lost as many hounds if you showed up! Where have you been? You haven't been performing your duties correctly, I'm worried, Sherlock-!"

"I must return our guest to her home tonight," Sherlock said without looking at him. "And I will talk to my brothers. Demeter will be dealt with, you need not worry, old friend. I have been negligent in my duties, but no longer. I will give her back."

If John did not know any better, his friend actually looked broken.

* * *

He hadn't expected her to be in the throne room. He had expected to find her curled up in his bed, frightened and a nervous wreck. Or maybe he had expected her to be wandering around the palace, her face a blank mask except for her fiery, stubborn eyes.

He had not expected her to be in  _his_  throne room, sitting at the foot of  _his_  dark throne, singing softly to a ghostly little girl.

She stopped in mid note as soon as she saw him, and the soul of the little girl grasped at her hands, fright written clearly on every inch of her body.

The Spring Goddess looked at him defiantly; she was afraid of him, he could see that clearly, but she refused to show him that. He noticed that she still had his black flower in her hair.

"The Fields," he drawled at the ghost, who bowed and vanished.

"Will she be alright?" Molly asked, staring at the spot where the girl had been.

"Yes of course," he said distractedly. "She had been exceptionally good during her short life."

"That's nice," she said, fiddling with her hair in a manner he found surprisingly endearingly. He waved the thought away in disgust.

"I will…just be going then," she trailed off when he neither spoke nor moved.

"I will be taking you back to your mother now," he spoke quickly, finding it difficult to speak as seconds passed. Her head snapped up, and she focused her steady gaze on him.

"What, what changed your mind?"

"A friend," he replied. He did not want to give a straight answer. He did not want to talk to her anymore, he needed her gone. He could feel the walls of his world crumbling, if he did not pour himself into his work soon, the Underworld would fall.

"You don't have friends," she said.

"I have one," he snapped, feeling inordinately proud to prove her wrong. He extended an arm to her. "Come along, then."

She looked at him warily.

"I will not hurt you."

She tentatively took his arm, and a spark travelled through both of them. Both recoiled simultaneously.

"Forgive me," he said quickly, "Sometimes, my power gets away from me."

He could see that she did not believe that for one second, but she nodded anyway, and took him arm again. This time they ignored the spark that flared between them.

"May I keep the flower?" she said suddenly, and he looked at her curiously. "It's very different from any other flower I have seen," she explained. "I have been keeping it rejuvenated. Please, may I?"

"Black suits you," he said simply in reply, feeling his words stick to his throat.

"Do we not need the ferry?" she asked as she felt him pull on his reserves of power.

"Being the lord of the Underworld means I get to do what I want. One way journey, though, I'm afraid. I usually have no power left for a return journey. Taking two pushes even my own limits."

As the world glittered around them, and he pulled her closer to him, inhaling her sweet scent deeply, she said, "You will find someone, Sherlock. I have heard tales about you and the Goddess of Chaos. Maybe she will return-,"

"Or maybe," he chuckled darkly, as Olympus came glittering into view. "I will rule alone, with no one but a three-headed dog, who likes walking around in the least threatening form ever, as my companion."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sempaiko has done an amazing artwork for this fic! *Yay!* You can find it on her tumblr.

He scowled almost as soon as the glittering gold of Olympus came into view. The mortals assumed that this was the home of the gods; that this was where the source of their power resided. Indeed, most gods were at home on Olympus, with its extravagant settings and splendor. Not him. To him, it was simply a place for his brother to look down on him, simply a place for those  _lesser_  beings to hate him, to assume that just because he ruled the Underworld and all its inhabitants, he was one of them.  _Evil, vile, sick and twisted. Freak._  Those were the titles the citizens of Olympus bestowed upon him. They did not call him those names in front of him, cowards that they were. They knew their place, and that thought gave him the self-satisfaction he needed to storm towards the throne room, his grip on his precious cargo painfully tight.

He would not be gentle with her any longer. She hated him. And soon, she would fear him. She would not dare to look at him with those warm brown eyes of hers with  _pity_. He evoked many emotions among gods and mortals alike, and pity was never one of them.  _Fear, anger, disgust, begrudging admittance of his brilliance._ Those were the emotions he knew what to do with.

Maybe he was vile and twisted. He did abduct a virgin goddess and bring upon war.  _Not that they would think she was a virgin any longer,_  he thought, and a sneer cut through his features. He had not touched her once since that confrontation in his chambers, but it would be amusing to see the goddesses, with their annoyingly predictable, _conventional_  ways, to try to accept her once more as their pure daughter. They never would.

He had possibly defiled her forever. And he barely did  _anything._

She would hate him forever.

It bothered him, that thought, for the fraction of a second before he squashed it. She never meant anything more to him than a vessel, just a trophy to show off to his brother, that he too, could have a bride; that he too, had a queen at his side.

He could not hide his shudder when he realized that those were the exact reasons she had brought up that night, his reasons for abducting her. She had read him better than he himself. Even he had not completely known his motives when he seduced her in the Gardens.

She whimpered as soon as he dragged her to a stop in front of the throne room, waiting for the guards to open the gates. He glanced down and realized with a jolt that he had held her forearm with unbearable strength. The red welts on her arm stood out in high relief against the pale skin of her arm, and guilt prickled at the back of his mind. He significantly lessened his hold on her, but still held on quite tightly.

"I am not going to run off," she said vehemently, glaring up at him. She seemed so full of life, he mused like the disgusting  _sick_  bastard he was, getting off on her fury. Whenever she got angry, or she was particularly riled up, her eyes had fire in them; fire that burned brightly and shone through the mask she had made for herself. She was not just the pure daughter of Mother Nature, she was something else entirely.

She would have made a fine queen. But then again, logic said that she would have been a distraction. He had no need for distractions.

Furthermore, he was quite certain he would have invested himself emotionally on her, and that wouldn't do at all. Like he had said before, he did not love. And he certainly did not love little slip of goddesses, no matter how much their fire tempted him.

* * *

She shivered, trying to curl in on herself. She had never been in the throne room of the Gods with a full court before, indeed, her visits to the throne room could be counted in one hand. Now, here, with all the Gods and Goddesses (with the exception of her  _mother_ , in the name of Gaea!) staring down at her from their thrones…she just wanted to go run to her favorite pastures and hide among the flowers.

Her nervousness was not helped by the _very_  imposing presence of the Dark Lord next to her, his grip still tight on her arm. The scowl firmly on his face twisted his usually handsome features.

"And where is her mother, brother?" he drawled, contempt dripping from every syllable. "Still laying siege to my kingdom? Or pilfering mortal children as sacrifice?"

She resisted the urge to snap at him. She had no intention of letting him drag her back down to the bowels of the Earth again. Mycroft rolled his eyes just as the gates of the throne room opened a second time.

"Molly? Molly! Oh, my darling daughter!" Mother always had taste for dramatic entrances. The satyr who had led her in, bowed and scampered from the room.

Sherlock snorted.

"You  _freak!_ " Demeter shrieked as soon as she drew level with him. "How  _dare_  you?  _How dare you?_ "

Molly flinched as Mother raised a hand to strike him. Mother was always harsh, though now she supposed she had reason to be. The Dark Lord raised his free hand almost leisurely, and stopped the assault mid-air.

"You forget, Demeter," Sherlock said lazily. "I might be deprived of my right to have a throne here; but I remain the King of the Underworld."

"You are nothing but a freak, an abomination!" Demeter shrieked, and Molly was struck by how ugly her mother could look when in rage. "You have defiled my daughter-,"

"If you have touched one hair on her pure body-!" Lestrade leapt up from his seat, trident raised.

"I will not have weapons drawn in this sacred hall, Lestrade," Mycroft said calmly, but emanating a power that Molly doubted even Sherlock could equal. "Brother," he said, fixing the Lord of the Dead with a firm gaze, "explain yourself."

"I have nothing to explain,  _Mycroft._ " Sherlock snapped, "I've brought her back, now may I be left in peace? Frankly, fighting off your pathetic forces is tedious and I could destroy them if I so wished."

It was a lie, Molly could clearly see that, and she knew Mycroft could see it too. Sherlock seemed to be almost  _drained_  to any who cared to look at him properly. It surprised her; the King of the Underworld was one of the Pantheon, a son of the Titans. He was never  _drained._

"I demand retribution!" Demeter hissed, "Who knows when he will attempt something like this again!"

"Brother, you may leave," Mycroft said, ignoring her accusation. "As long as-,"

"I never darken your perfect kingdom again," Sherlock sneered and bowed to him mockingly. "Goodbye, brother  _dear."_

He turned to leave, releasing his hold on Molly's arm. Demeter heaved a sigh of equal parts relief and annoyance. He was halfway to the gates, his black armor a violent contrast to the gold and white splendor of the throne room when he stopped suddenly.

He twisted; his greenish blue eyes on Molly, a shiver ran through her. He was looking at her with an emotion that she could not name, an emotion that set her nerves on fire and her blood burn, made her heart beat faster.

The next thing she knew, she was pressed up against him, his hands firmly on her arse, groping and pulling their cores flush against each other, his lips ravaging hers violently, teeth biting and tongue soothing, dominating her entirely and Gaea, her traitorous body  _liked_  it,  _craved_  it, her limp arms holding onto his shoulders for dear life, her knees weak. Her body responded instinctively, tongue tentatively meeting his questing one, lips moving along with his, desire pooling in her center. Her body flashed hot.

And then she was cold, oh so cold as he pulled away, and she was wrenched away from the world he had taken her to, becoming very aware that around her there was pandemonium. Sherlock held her still, pressing their foreheads together, not caring about her mother's shrieks of rage and the bolts of pure power that hit his wards.

He was very smart, putting up those wards.

" _Remember me, little goddess,"_  he breathed against her lips, and she blindly reached for his lips again, sense had left her, she  _wanted_  him, she  _needed_  him, she remembered why she had gone with him in the first place, he was  _temptation_  and she was a  _fool_ , she-

" _Remember,"_  he kissed her again, and just like that, he was gone, and she fell to the floor, his strong arms no longer holding her up.

The Gates of Heaven clanged closed on the Lord of the Dead. He had no place here.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating increased for drug abuse and sexual situations. Nothing graphic, just implications of sex. Ancient Greece did not really have any history of drug abuse, but then I remembered that Hades is a bloody god, he should be able to roam the Earth, not just Greece. Don't sweat the details, though.

_He wakes up feeling warm and content, a comforting weight resting on his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths. A heady smell of roses permeates the air. He blinks, the last vestiges of sleep washing away, as his left palm drags down an expanse of smooth, bare back. The warm, soft weight on him moans, and he is keenly aware that he is not clothed. Brown hair drifts across his field of vision and he inhales automatically, finding it to be the source of the rose scent._

_His eyes widen when she lifts her head and smiles at him; a smile so bright that he is blinded. He has never seen her smile with such joy and love, so much love and that it is meant for him makes him ache. He threads his free hand through her hair, marveling at its softness. She drags her fingernails across the sparse hairs on his chest in turn, just circling around his nipples. There is a sharp intake of breath and he realizes that it was him. Her smile becomes mischievous._

" _Hello," she says, a hand sliding up his sternum to cup his face; then she leans in to place a chaste kiss to his lips. When he does not respond, she pulls away with a frown. "What is the matter?"_

_He continues on staring at her, the phantom spark of her innocent kiss still running through him. Her expression turns to that of worry. "My dear husband, are you alright?"_

_His breath catches again. "Husband?" he whispers, his grip on her back tightening._

_She smiles as he tips them so that she is underneath him; he groans as her soft, naked body presses into his hard, lean one. "Yes. My husband. Mine. Mine forever."_

He had woken up then, in his empty bed, the sheets cold; frustrated enough to disintegrate an entire shelf of priceless scrolls.

* * *

He was cruel and unjust to the many souls who came to him for their fates in the afterlife. He took a vile sort of pleasure in living up to their preconceived notions of him. John does not say a word, preferring to retain his true form instead of his humanoid shape, and Sherlock avoids his eyes, not wanting to see the sympathy and  _concern_ in his friend's eyes.

He fashions another throne, smaller, delicate and decidedly feminine next to his when the court emptied. John comes up to him when he finished. He does not question Sherlock's decision to decorate the new throne with intricate flowers of diamonds and rubies.

Instead, the great Keeper of the Gates lays his monstrous heads on Sherlock's lap, letting the Lord of the Dead card his fingers through the grayish blond fur of his back.

Even the King of the Underworld needed to be comforted sometimes.

* * *

He was banished from the Overworld a long time back, but that never stopped him from sneaking in. He does so now, in his favorite disguise of a hunch backed old man, and he steals into the gardens Demeter had allocated to her temples. And he sees her.

She is indeed a creature of the light. She is  _radiant._

She sat at the steps of the temple (he was momentarily incensed that she had not been deemed important enough to be granted her own temple), nymphs simpering next to her, weaving flowers into her hair in elaborate braids. The young Sun God lounged next to her, and as he watched, the  _boy_  reached out to pluck a flower out of her hair.

He notes with a fierce sort of pleasure that she looked affronted, and he heard her "Mother is expected back soon, so I would advise you to leave,  _Victor,_ " her tone both haughty and polite at the same time. She stalks off towards the pools, her nymphs running after her, while the Sun God scowls and attempts to follow, only to find his feet turned to stone.

It is a minor enchantment, but it would last long enough to the boy a lesson.

* * *

It does not take him long to find  _her,_   _the_ Goddess, the only Woman who had ever defeated him. She smirks when he arrives at the doorstep of the mortal home she had made for herself, and he finds odd relief in the familiarity of her body, the hardness of her eyes. She does not have those warm brown eyes that make him feel inadequate; she does not have an  _innocence,_ she is cold, cruel,  _cunning_ , and he has no qualms being rough with her,  _she welcomes it._

What they do, when they fall into her bed, is not 'making love', as the mortals sugar coat it. It is not sex, either. It is pure, animalistic, primal  _mating_ ; just violent lust and need, combined with the mutual spark of the mind.

She bites him hard enough for him to bleed, yet he is not allowed to bite her in turn. She is not his, and no matter how much they spark together, he cannot bring himself to give everything over to her.

He can't stop himself from thinking of  _her_  when he nears his peak,  _his_  little slip of a goddess, and suddenly the ebony hair becomes brown, the eyes become warmer and softer, and there she is, looking at him with  _love_  and trust, and he groans out her name as he  _explodes_ , sinking his teeth down a long column of neck he is sure is hers.

Irene throws him out just as soon as she is physically able to remove herself from him.

* * *

Mortals were fantastic creatures. They wandered around most of the time, lost and confused, little more than dumb animals that had learned to write. But one thing he would give them credit for; they may never manage to become one of the Gods, but they certainly could replicate the feeling of intense power and ecstasy.

The fumes equally grant power and take them away from him; he does not care, he has found the one thing that does not require  _emotions_ , it calms his ever racing brain and he is no longer plagued by thoughts of her, the vile  _temptress_  with her mask of innocence and  _pity._  He has no one, no one will miss him. If he knows his brother, the Underworld will already have a new ruler by now; maybe one that obeyed Mycroft's every command.

An unbidden thought of John flashes across his mind, but is swiftly killed by a fresh dose of fume.

* * *

He has lost track of the days, weeks, years he has been in mortal land. His powers are almost gone. He would not be able return to the Underworld again. He would fade away, like the Titan Helios, and another would take his place, like Victor. No one would mourn him. John would be happy with his new master; maybe Molly would even attend the coronation.

He wonders where she is now; he is certain Violet has taken her under her wing, made her one of the Huntresses. Surely they must have realized by now that she is pure, untouched, undefiled by his dirty hands.

The thoughts push him to increase the concentration of the fumes, knowing that it would drain his immortality.

Pathetic. A son of Kronos, once King of the Underworld, driven to suicide because of rejection by a dainty, little slip of a goddess with warm, kind eyes.

He laughs manically when the gates of the den burst open and a great dog with three hideous heads lurches in, growling ominously. The intoxicated mortals flee the beast's path, but the dog only has three pairs of eyes for him. It jumps on him, and he briefly wonders if this is real, and not his mind playing tricks again. He quickly dismisses the notion, he knows his brain is clever enough to conjure up sensations as well as sights; the hot feel of breath on his face, the claws digging into his unprotected chest, ripping his dirty clothes.

The dog transforms into his humanoid shape, and punches him, across the face, hard. "What, in the name of Kronos, do you think you are doing?"

John then proceeds to slam him repeatedly against the wall, he could be executed for such an act of insubordination, but he is an hallucination, he would vanish as soon as the fumes lost their potency-

"I thought-," John hits him across the face again, and he tastes blood, "-you were dead, Gaea, you piece of shit-," he grabs him around the throat now, his grip tight, Sherlock's slender fingers curl around his arm, "-do you have any idea what I went through?  _Three years_ , three years I waited! And now I find you, in this  _disgusting_  mortal  _garbage-hole_ , selling your immortality for –,"

Sherlock cannot breathe, the grip is surprisingly tight for a hallucination, he is dying, the world begins to go black, and he manages to make a small smirk at the thought that the sight of his best and only friend would be the last thing he sees.

* * *

When he comes to, he isn't on the moss-covered floor of the drug den; he is in bed,  _his bed_ , with its silken covers. He feels cleaner, he is no longer wearing the dirty, mucky clothes, but rather his own soft robes of Egyptian cotton. He is, for the first time in a long time,  _content_ , and someone is running their fingers through his hair, and Gaea it feels so good, he-

"You should have some more ambrosia," a feminine voice says from above him, "You look like…well, you look like death."

His eyes snap open. It's  _her._  Oh, his father must be having a great laugh from his prison.

"I'm not a hallucination," she says, and he is aware that his head rests on her lap, and it is her hand that cards through his curls, "John said you might think that. So, I'm telling you now. I'm not a hallucination."

He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry, his voice raspy from disuse and he cannot make a coherent sentence. She shushes him, and brings up a goblet to his mouth. "Drink, please. You'll feel better."

It's ambrosia and nectar, and the first sip spreads energy through him like wild fire. He is able to look at her clearly, and he manages to reach up and touch the black rose that still rests on her hair. She blushes prettily.

"You kept it."

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"The same reason I'm here. The same reason I disobeyed my  _infuriating_  mother in the first place."

"And what reason is that?" He can't stop touching her hair, his eyes are fixed upon hers, there are lines on her forehead that weren't there three years ago, and she had lost weight. She had been  _worried_. About  _him._  The last person on any of the worlds who deserved her concern.

"Because," she took a deep breath, and to his surprise, tears began to well up behind her lashes, "because I'm a great, bloody _, idiot_."

And she leans down to make their lips meet in a reunion that is so sweet that he is certain that he would burst from the emotions that rush through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally supposed to end this here, but I think you guys deserved a better ending. And how could I not use the whole entire 'pomegranate, six months a year' thing? I could have lengthened the chapter but this line felt right to end the chapter. I hope you don't mind. The last chapter will be up soon though!
> 
> Lots of love to everyone who followed, faved, kudos'd and reviewed, because holy hell, I had no idea this fic would garner such a reaction. I…I…I don't know how to thank you. I must be doing something right at least!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this piece of absolute butchery of Mythology. But then again, in a world where Wrath of the Titans exists, I guess my sins will be forgiven.

The sky is different here. There is no sun, no brilliant Sun God in his chariot, bringing shining warmth to her. Instead, the sky is the color of blood-a different type of light shone, and she can feel the heat of the fires in which the long dead mortals burned. And yet, the Dread Lord's garden flourished, though she is certain it was Mother Hudson who took care of it, rather than  _him._

She did not know what brought her here. Here in the Gardens, here in the Land of the Dead. She just knew that when she heard that the King of the Underworld was missing and his faithful Dog had gone on a rampage, fueled by grief and anger because no one had searched for his King, leaving the Gates unguarded, she had to find him. She just  _had_ to.

Unsurprisingly, it had been difficult, but the answer, when it came to her, was as absurdly simple as it was terrifying.

He was abusing poppies.  _Her_ poppies. Some disgusting mortals had found a way to pervert her creation, turning them into drugs with destructive powers if used too much.  _Drugs powerful enough to put a drain on the Gods; drugs that could eat away their immortality._

She would have turned the whole lot of them into poppies if John hadn't bounded off without her.

She digs her toes into the soft grass as she hears someone approaching. Bracing herself for whatever the King would say, she turns but instead of the God in dark clothing, there stands a woman.

A woman of breathtaking beauty, she wonders for a moment if this was Aphrodite in one of her forms- or maybe Peitho, Aphrodite's close companion. But no, this woman did not have the fragile beauty of those goddesses, hers was a cold, cruel type of beauty, and Molly was certain her cunning could nearly match Athena's.

Chaos.

"Oh, so you do recognize me," Chaos smirks, tossing her ebony hair over her shoulder, "Tell me, is your mother still bearing a grudge against me?"

"You know me?" her throat is dry; this goddess intimidates her unlike any other. Like Chaos would not hesitate to rip her apart, and she is half certain she would do it.

"Your mother has spent most of her immortal life wanting me eradicated," Chaos says, white teeth gleaming against ruby lips. "But who doesn't know of the goddess who stole the Dread Lord's supposedly nonexistent heart?"

It was impossible to come up with a suitable answer to that. "I…I stole-what?"

Chaos laughs again, a sound that has the trees rustling, "You poor, sweet girl, will you stop playing with me? Now, tell me, what's the secret? I've been trying for sixteen million years and yet here you come along, a little slip of a goddess, and ruin all my hard work?"

Annoyance flickers within her. "I did no such thing." Her hands clench and all she suddenly wants to do is leave, or at the very least ensure Chaos' head had leaves growing on it.

"Oooh, fiery. The mouse can bite. I see what he sees in you, now," the goddess sits down and crosses her legs, the slip of a dress she was wearing rides up, revealing her shapely thighs. "Really, you need not get so jealous, darling. I'm not here to spread…chaos."

"Seeing as that's what most Gods call you, forgive me for the assumption."

Another twinkling laugh, and this time, Molly feels a shiver run through her skin. "Is that what you lot call me? Oh no, darling, my name is Irene. Being the personification of Chaos is just a…occupation."

Irene observes her for a moment, and she holds her cold gaze equally. "Now dear, what is your plan, hmmm? Do you stay? Or if you want to leave, how do you? You willingly walked back to the lion's den again, if I may say so."

This was a question she had been dreading and Molly has no answer to it. "I don't know. I…I…Mother…"

"Forget about that woman for a moment, she has no sense of fun," Irene makes a dismissive gesture, "Tell me, do you want to stay here? In this terrible land? You now owe the Gatekeeper a huge favor, but will the King let you leave?"

"I will…I will stay," Molly says, the words tumbling from her mouth, "as long as he wants me too."

Irene looks at her intensely and then throws her ebony head back and laughs the sound full of mirth. "Oh dear Kronos, after everything he's done to her, the girl's in love."

Molly flushes scarlet, and she can feel the grass growing beneath her feet, the trees rustling ominously. "That matter is none of your bloody business."

"He will break you," Irene says, getting up and towering over her, "He will break you. He'll get bored, he always does. He is not like the others, little girl, he even managed to  _burn me,"_ she pressed a fruit into Molly's hand, "It is a fruit of the Underworld, you know what happens should you partake in one. But heed my warning, goddess-,"

"I think you have overstayed your welcome, Woman."

They both turn at the baritone, and sudden relief passes through the Spring Goddess.

He looks healthy and whole, she can feel the power he radiates.

"What, the mistress and the wife cannot even speak?" Irene snorts, sauntering towards him. Molly grits her jaw when the Goddess of Chaos reaches to kiss him, her slender hands gripping at his arms.

"Not when the mistress is you," Sherlock says as he pulls away, his eyes on Molly.

"Ha! Sixteen million years, and he finally admits it," Irene retorts, even as she nears the edge of the Garden. She gives Molly one last look. "I so do hope we can do this again. And remember what I said before, Molly."

With that she turns, and vanishes from sight.

"She knows what that idiotic boatman of mine likes," Sherlock answers before the question can leave Molly's lips. "She does not come here often, but she nearly always gets in because of him."

Molly does not know what to say to that, so she merely nods.

"I…I guess you'll be wanting to go back then," he says, voice nearly a whisper, and she unconsciously steps closer to him. "You should leave that fruit here."

"How long have you been standing here?" She does not know why she's whispering as well.

"Long enough." He looks broken.

She reaches a hand to cup his cheek, forcing him to look at her. She does not let go of the fruit in her other hand. "Then you will know my decision."

"Why?" The question falls from his lips like a child's, and she cannot help the laugh that escapes from her.

"I think I answered that question before, Sherlock. Because I'm an idiot." With a sudden courage she had no idea she had in her, she reaches up, his hands gripping her waist and aiding her slightly, and kisses him, moaning when he starts to kiss her back.

She missed this.

He pulls away just as quickly, and she bemoans the loss. "I…I'll break you," he pants, their foreheads pressed together, "I will hurt you, I can't-,"

"Do you want to hurt me? Do you want to break me?" Her fingers run through his curls, still not being able to believe that this was the cold God who had frightened her so that night three years ago.

"No," he sobs, and she kisses him again and again.

Anything to piece him together.

"Then you won't. This is my choice, Sherlock, and mine alone. And I think you are worthy to be my husband" and with that, she peels away the skin of the fruit and takes a bite. Six fleshy, delicious seeds explode in her mouth and before she can take another bite, he launches himself against her, taking her mouth possessively, tongue tasting the fruit on her lips before she granted him access.

The fruit falls from her and the world whirls around her. Then she feels her back hit his bed and she lets go of any inhibitions, kissing him just as possessively.

Because he was hers as well.

* * *

He is a gentle lover, even though his kisses are hard enough to bruise her lips. He takes her slowly, moving within her with tenderness and even though there is the lingering burn, pleasure soon overwhelms her, and she clutches at his hair, his arms, anywhere she can reach, her thighs gripping his hips, begging him to go faster, move faster over her, take her completely.

She lets him mark her, his scent covering hers, his teeth sinking down on the long column of her neck, the pleasure-pain making her world explode as he hits a spot deep inside her, and she screams his name as she convulses beneath him, her completion pushing him towards his. He reaches to touch her face as he nears his peak, his index finger digging into her temple, and he presses their forehead together, and Molly can feel the tendril of power reaching inside her mind, unlocking reserves of power she did not know she had. The power flows through her, and she clutches to him, afraid she would be swept away by it.

When he collapses over her, their heated bodies sweaty and panting, she turns her head and kisses his cheek, in awe of what he just did for her. The power still crackles at her finger tips; she is now truly the Queen of the Underworld. Her heart swells, and she whispers, " _I think I'm in love with you."_

He chuckles as he pulls out of her, turning their bodies so that he is curled protectively against her. He nips at her earlobe and whispers back, " _And_   _ **I**_ _think I love you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are done! Yay! There might be an epilogue, but this can end here as well. So I will be marking this as complete. But really, thank you all for being such a sporting group of readers, thank you. Lots of love to all those who faved, kudos'd followed, and reviewed!


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